


Prolonged Anticipation

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Ian Adler (Irene Adler), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Character Death, Other, Queer Molly Hooper, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows what she wants from her brother by the time she is seventeen years old. It should be simple. It isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prolonged Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fem!Sherlock decided Mycroft was the one when she was 17, he 23. Mycroft being older and smarter said it was a crush and gently let her down. Sherlock goes on in life, is a consulting detective, detached and cold. And everyone finds it alluring. Sherlock does 1 night stands, dates with as many rare pairs you like; all to make Mycroft jealous. Which he is. Sherlock's tells Mycroft he has while she's 'dead' to 'court' and charm her. Cue international dates, gifts, missing each other, fun and smut!

The mirror ball rotated slowly in the center of the hall, sending bright flecks of light across the spotty, teenage faces below. Sherlock knew she was the best looking girl at the dance, and she wished, desperately, that she wasn’t.

Every single sweaty, stupid bully in her year had been looking her over. Harold: huge ears and obsession with cricket. James: warts on his toes, refused to wear his glasses because he thought they made him look ugly. Ethan: liked to spit on the ground every twenty meters.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t even wanted to go to the damn disco but Mother had insisted. The fact that Sherlock hadn’t made any friends worried her. Sherlock had tried to explain that making friends with the unwashed plebeians in her year was futile, but her Mother would not be persuaded.  
  
‘You’ll go to this disco, Sherlock darling,’ she had said. ‘You’ll dress up and you’ll dance and you’ll smile at people. Ok? I just hate to see you so lonely. Such a pretty girl. You’ll find people who like you, I promise, sweetie.’  
  
So here she was. At the disco, dancing, in a tiny dress which emphasized her skinny pale legs and the fact that she was a foot taller than almost everyone else in her year. Ethans head would fit underneath her chin.  
  
The only interesting thing Sherlock had thus far discovered was the sheer power of sex appeal. A few younger male teachers were blatantly distracted by her, and a few parents glared at her as she passed. Clearly they suspected that she would corrupt their angelic sons.  
  
‘It’s a disco, Sherly,’ a voice said. ‘You’re not meant to be scowling.’  
  
It was Freddie. He was a year older than Sherlock, but was in her class after transferring from America. Somewhere near New York, from his accent. He was the only boy close to her age who was (almost) as tall as her.  
  
‘I can scowl if I want,’ Sherlock said. ‘It’s none of your business.’  
  
‘You look really cool,’ Freddie said, undaunted. ‘Could I dance with you?’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock drawled. ‘Could you?’  
  
Freddie hesitated, unsure if she meant yes or no. At least three people had stopped to watch them. What were they expecting her to do? Slap him? Make him cry? The second was more her style, frankly, but of all the people who could have approached, Freddie was the… least worst. If she danced with him the entire night, then none of the other nasty, puss-fingered boys would approach.  
  
‘Fine.’ Sherlock smiled. It felt unnatural but Freddie didn’t seem to notice.  
  
‘Awesome,’ Freddie said, grinning. ‘We’re almost the same height, too.’  
  
‘Almost.’  
  
‘Are you calling me short?’  
  
‘Maybe. You are shorter than me. It’s just being honest.’  
  
‘Sometimes people don’t like it when other people are honest.’  
  
‘I’ve noticed.’  
  
‘I’ll bet. You’re clever, yeah? Like that time you corrected Mr Falkner? That was cool.’  
  
Sherlock was flattered that he’d remembered. Mr Falkner was the science teacher and, in Sherlocks opinion, had a brain as developed as the average earthworm. She had pointed out numerous flaws in his test in front of the class a few months ago, to a stunned silence.  
  
And, typically, a months worth of detentions.  
  
She danced every dance with Freddie. His hands were not as sweaty as she’d feared and he wasn’t too awful at maintaining a conversation. Eventually everybody stopped looking at them.  
  
‘This is nice, yeah?’ Freddie said eventually. ‘You’re pretty cool. For a fourteen year old.’  
  
‘My IQ is extremely advanced,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘My age is just a-’  
  
‘Ok! Ok! Sorry! Wow. Somebodies angry.’  
  
‘You’re only five months older than me, though,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘That isn’t very much.’  
  
She felt Freddie shrug under her hands. For a while they danced in silence. Dancing involved her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, and avoiding each others feet as they bobbed about to the music. It was tedious. But at least she wouldn’t have to lie to Mother about standing in the corner deducing people all night.  
  
‘Want to go outside?’ Freddie suggested quietly. ‘I know we’re not meant to but Mrs Lane isn’t standing by the door right now.’  
  
‘Ok.’  
  
It was bound to be cold outside, but breaking rules interested Sherlock on principle, especially when she could truthfully blame someone else for having the idea. They slipped through the crowd, Freddie holding her hand tightly.  
  
Nobody saw them leave. The cold air made Sherlocks arms erupt in goose-pimples, and she was abruptly glad for the warmth of Freddie beside her. They walked until they were beyond the line of sight of anybody who would peer out of the door.  
  
It was dark. She could just make out the distant goal posts in the oval at the bottom of the school, but otherwise there was little to see. Dull after all. What a shame.  
  
Freddie was still holding her hand. Now he tugged on it, getting her attention. It was hard to see his facial expression in the darkness but his hand, Sherlock felt, was at least 20% sweatier than it had been previously.  
  
‘We should kiss,’ Freddie said. ‘It’ll warm you up.’  
  
‘Will it?’  
  
Sherlock had never heard that kissing could warm a person up. He’d probably made that up, after all, as an excuse to kiss her. She felt something flutter briefly in her stomach.  
  
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘See?’  
  
He kissed her, pressing his lips over hers in a dry, shy kiss. Sherlock didn’t feel very warm, but he hadn’t done it properly, after all.  
  
‘You didn’t do it right,’ she accused. ‘People kiss with their mouths open.’  
  
‘You- do you want to do that?’  
  
He sounded more excited than she’d ever heard him. Sherlock reflected that this probably wasn’t what Mother had meant when she’d said to make friends.  
  
‘Yeah,’ Sherlock said. ‘How can you tell if it warms me up if you don’t do it right?’  
  
‘Yeah… ok.’  
  
Freddie kissed her again, this time with his mouth open just a little. She mimicked him, opening her own mouth an equal amount. She could smell the chips he’d eaten on his breath. It didn’t seem to be working, though. Didn’t kissing involve more movement?  
  
She licked his lip experimentally and he moaned loudly. Startled, Sherlock drew back, but he followed. His lips found hers again. This time his mouth was very, very open. Kissing was, it turned out, horribly wet. Sloppy.  
  
Sherlock pulled away and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.  
  
‘That was gross,’ she said. ‘Is it always gross?’  
  
‘Nah,’ he said, unoffended. ‘I think it’s meant to feel better when you have something in common with the person you kiss. If we dated we might have something in common?’  
  
‘I don’t think so,’ Sherlock said.  
  
Freddie shrugged and left, unconcerned. She supposed he would have an excellent story to tell his friends tomorrow, assuming any of them ever believed him.  
  
Who did she have something in common with? Was there anyone alive like her? Admittedly, she hadn’t met a huge number of people yet… maybe she would, eventually, find somebody who had a mind like hers?  
  
A mind like mine, Sherlock mused.  
  
Mycroft.

 

~

 

Sherlock celebrated her seventeenth birthday at home with Mother, Father, Mycroft, Uncle Albert and Uncle Jake, Aunty Linda, and her cousins Fiona, Regina and Drake. If it hadn’t been for her own private, delicious secret, then she might’ve tried to set herself on fire with her own birthday cake.  
  
Everybody remarked on how beautiful she looked. How thin, how pale, how fucking _ethereal_ she was. Uncle Albert was the worst of all. He kept telling her she ought to model, with eyes like hers, hair so dark. She wanted to set his shaggy awful beard alight.  
  
The only person who seemed to understand her ire was Mycroft. He often shot her sympathetic, conspiratorial looks. Each one sent a bolt of excitement into her gut.  
  
She was desperate for the day to end, to get Mycroft on his own. Six years her senior, with lighter hair and a pointer nose, Mycroft was staying for only one night. His life in London was busy. Sherlock missed him every single day.  
  
‘Look at the glow on her!’ Aunty Linda said, putting her hand under Sherlocks chin and lifting her face up. ‘I’d say she was in love!’  
  
Sherlock snapped her teeth and Aunty Linda pulled away swiftly.

 

~

 

Evening melted into night. Sherlock sat in her room, debating what to wear. She’d narrowed down her options to her underwear beneath a dressing gown, or just a small cotton nightie with nothing underneath at all.  
  
In the end she decided on the nightie. She liked the idea of being able to lift it up, exposing her naked breasts and cunt all at once. She could hold it under her arm pits, Mycrofts hands over her tits while she bounced on his cock.  
  
Sherlock was confident in her proposal. She was, as every person she encountered seem to insist upon noticing, very attractive. However she was also a Holmes, and like her brother had one the most unusual and intelligent brains in modern Britain.  
  
It went without saying that Mycroft found the idea of fucking someone else as unappealing as she found it. Surely once she explained the sound logic behind what she wanted he would want too.  
  
She left her bedroom, confident that nobody else was moving around the house. She had every creak and groan of the floor memorized. Mycrofts room was only three doors up, and light was leaking out from under his door.  
  
Sherlock opened it without knocking.  
  
‘Wha- Sherlock. Oh my.’  
  
Mycrofts eyes ran over her thrice, from top to bottom. She grinned as his cheeks went a bright pink. Clearly she already had the upper hand. She closed the door with a small click.  
  
Mycroft had been sitting at his desk, but he stood now, one hand on the back of his chair. He was still dressed in the casual suit he’d worn for the party, his hair still neatly combed.  
  
‘Sherlock… is this what I think it is?’  
  
‘It depends. What do you think it is?’  
  
‘I think you’re going to attempt to seduce me.’  
  
‘Wrong. I’m going to succeed at seducing you.’  
  
He licked his lips. Sherlock refused to look away from his face, noting the darkness of his eyes and his increased respiration. She felt herself clench in anticipation.  
  
‘Sherlock…’ Mycrofts tone was gentle. ‘I admit that I’m flattered. If we weren’t siblings I dare say I’d be tempted. But this isn’t what you want.’  
  
‘Yes, it is,’ Sherlock said, stepping forward. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for-’  
  
‘Don’t tell me,’ Mycroft interrupted. ‘I am much older than you. I’ve seen more of the world than you have, met more people. You’ll find somebody you really do want, I promise. This… little crush. It will pass.’  
  
Sherlock knew she had tears in her eyes. A strange, wrenching sensation was occurring inside her chest. All of a sudden she felt very, very exposed.  
  
‘But you want me,’ she said. ‘You do, I can tell. And I want you too. It makes _sense,_ Mycroft.’  
  
‘No, Sherlock, it doesn’t.’  
  
‘But you don’t deny that you want me, do you!’  
  
‘Keep your voice down,’ Mycroft snapped, angry for the first time. ‘I have no wish to be interrupted like this.’  
  
‘Like what?’ Sherlock said, half-laughing. ‘Nothings happening.’  
  
‘And nothing is going to happen,’ Mycroft said. ‘Go back to bed.’  
  
‘Fine,’ Sherlock said, voice pained. ‘I’m going. But I know you know it’s a good idea. I’ll show you.’  
  
She turned on her heel and closed Mycrofts door behind her with a slam, unconcerned about making noise. Hateful, ignorant Mycroft, who refused to listen to her, refused to do what he wanted to do-  
  
She didn’t start crying until she was back in her own bed, hidden under the covers.

 

~

 

University was awful. Despite Mycrofts promise that she would meet more people in the wider world, thus far every person she had met was a slightly taller version of the cretins she had spent her time at school avoiding.  
  
Everybody knew who she was. The notorious Sherlock Holmes: attractive but frigid, reduced anyone who approached her to tears and passed every exam with almost no studying done.  
  
It suited her to be both known and feared. People left her alone if she told them to, and a couple would do what she wanted (whatever she wanted) if she asked with the right tone of voice. And others came to her, like subjects would come to royalty, asking for help.  
  
She had no moral issues with completing the work of other students, provided that they pay her in whatever she wanted. Sometimes it was keys or timetables, allowing her wider access to the university.  
  
Sebastian was one of the people who came to her semi-constantly. He was terrible at science, though his grasp of math was tolerable. She detested him with every fiber of her being. But (but!) he was offering her the most interesting type of payment of all: drugs.  
  
Experimenting with drugs was, Sherlock knew, a cliché for university students. Some parts of the campus literally reeked with weed smoke. She didn’t have any interest, however, in feeling giggly or hungry. She wanted to feel sharp, fast, manic, to be able to stay awake for hours. Sleep disgusted her. The bodies constant needs tugging her away from the problems of her mind.  
  
Sebastian had a dealer. She had tested the cocaine herself to make sure it was good quality, and had been pleased to discover that it was. So she started to shoot it, only once or twice a month. Her marks did not suffer. Her behavior changed in very tiny ways, but nobody knew her well enough to notice.  
  
But Sherlock knew that one person would notice, if only he would visit. Mycroft would know the moment he saw her. During the day Sherlock dreamed of the scene he would make: anger, concern, shock, affection. It wasn’t a plea for attention, as it did enhance her mind wonderfully, but his disapproval was a welcome side-effect.  
  
He hadn’t visited her yet. His work was keeping him very busy. Sherlock knew he wasn’t making excuses, either- she could hardly glance at a newspaper without spotting some subtle indicator, some little phrase that stood out, saying: Mycroft Did This.  
  
Eventually, however, Mycroft said he would visit Wednesday. Sherlock spent the entire day in a state of distraction, deliberately messing up Victors essay by including references to compulsive masturbation. If he didn’t read what she’d written then he’d probably end up in counseling.  
  
He would probably come in his lunch hour, so she shot up three hours before then. Just a little. Not as much as she usually did. And then, with twenty minutes to go before he arrived, she orchestrated the cherry on top of her revenge- she called Sebastian over.  
  
Sebastian, who was getting a reputation in London as the next big and tedious thing in the world of banking. He had a sneer which he’d developed early on in life in order to make himself seem both richer and meaner than he was, although he was already rich and mean enough for many. A parasite, a social climber who used people and laughed at banal, sexist jokes. Sherlock hated him, and had hated him on sight. So would Mycroft.  
  
Sebastians head popped around her door, his expression both excited and wary. She waved him inside, aware of how she looked: it was summer, and she was wearing a thin dress with no bra.  
  
‘You wanted me, freaky?’  
  
‘Indeed I do.’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘In about nineteen minutes I’m going to have a visitor. I want him to walk in on something very specific, you understand?’  
  
‘No…’  
  
But he sounded curious. He closed the door, taking a few steps forwards. Unlike Mycroft, the chance of his denying her what she wanted was literally zero. His eyes lingered on her chest, only occasionally darting up towards her face.  
  
‘I want him to walk in on you fucking me.’  
  
Sebastian chocked on air for a few seconds, eyes wide and alarmed. Sherlock watched him calmly. Once he was in control of his airways again he grinned, predatory and delighted.  
  
‘Is this some sort of, like, revenge thing? Or a kinky thing?’  
  
‘I’m not telling you,’ Sherlock said. ‘Just do what I tell you to, yes? I’m sure your brain can manage that. We’ve got about seventeen minutes and I doubt you’ll last four, so we have to time this properly.’  
  
‘I can last up to half a fucking hour,’ Sebastian said, almost insulted. ‘I’ll show you what a proper fuckings like, you trust me.’  
  
‘Right,’ Sherlock said, rolling her eyes. ‘Trousers off and get on the bed. I’m not taking my dress off.’  
  
‘Fine,’ he said, yanking down his pants. ‘What position? Missionary? Doggy style? Or, I know, reverse cowgirl-’  
  
‘Don’t overexcite yourself too early,’ Sherlock said. ‘Doggy style will suffice.’  
  
 _‘Will suffice,_ ’ Sebastian mimicked. ‘You’re still so uptight. Fuck.’  
  
‘Hurry up,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I didn’t ask for your commentary, I asked for your cock. Now get. On. The bed.’  
  
Sebastian was naked from the waist down and hard. Sherlock looked at his cock, noting that it was both healthy and unremarkable. She passed him a condom and moved to her hands and knees, tugging up her skirt until it sat around her waist. She faced the door.  
  
What she wanted was for Mycrofts imagination to torment him. He wouldn’t be able to see Sebastian fucking her, wouldn’t be able to see her tits, or his cock moving in and out of her cunt- he would know those things were happening, would picture them in his head, along with her face-  
  
Sebastian climbed up behind her, swearing a little as he took in the view. She had lubed herself up first, slicking her fingers and pressing them into herself as deeply as she could.  
  
‘You good?’ Sebastian asked, his hands coming to rest on her hips. ‘Because I’m going to fuck you now.’  
  
‘Really?’ Sherlock said, sarcastic. ‘I thought you might start off with a prayer, maybe follow with a short nap. Hurry up.’  
  
He took her words to heart. She felt the latex tipped end of his cock press into her, momentarily hesitant. Then his fingers clenched and he started to sink in. It was a slight stretch, but nothing Sherlock hadn’t experienced before with toys or fingers.  
  
‘Holy fuck,’ Sebastian said. ‘Holy shit.’  
  
His hips began to swing forwards, driving his cock deeper with each thrust. She bit down on her lip, straining her ears for the sound of footsteps. They had about eight minutes, assuming he was neither early nor late. Would Sebastian last that long?  
  
‘You call me _freaky_ because I threaten you,’ Sherlock said, keeping her voice as even as she could. ‘It’s obvious that I scare you.’  
  
‘Do I s-seem scared of you now?’ Sebastian gasped. His hips hit her with more force than previously. ‘Huh?’  
  
‘Don’t know,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Can’t tell.’  
  
She wondered if he would perceive that as a slight on his manhood, which was occasionally (accidentally, she thought) brushing against a sweet spot inside of her.  
  
‘What was that?’ Sebastian said to her. ‘Are you calling my-’  
  
‘ _Shhh!_ ’ Sherlock hissed. ‘I think he’s coming! I can hear somebody in the hall.’  
  
Sebastian fell silent, fucking her in earnest. Hot, burning excitement was bubbling inside her stomach now. She recognized Mycrofts steady walk, and the slight tap of the umbrella he had recently taken to carrying around everywhere with him.  
  
Her excitement made her clench harder around Sebastian, who was starting to pant. Her eyes were fixed on the doorknob, which started to rotate.  
  
‘Long time no-’  
  
Mycroft froze in the doorway, the solicitous smile dropping from his face instantaneously. He gaped a little, taking in Sebastian, his body, their position, her arms, and lastly her face.  
  
In a second that contained years and years, Mycroft looked her right in the eyes. She saw the rawness of his desire for her, his shock, his disgust, his fear at the telltale track marks on her arms, his continued love for her, all in one moment.  
  
Sebastian moaned. Brought back to earth, Mycroft slammed the door and fled. Sherlock closed her eyes, reliving the expression on his face over and over, pretending the cock still moving in her was Mycrofts until she came.

 

~

 

She ditched Sebastian after fucking him and found her own dealer. But she only ever used when the urge was strong, when the hideous reality of the world was pressing down on her skull.  
  
Everybody wanted to know what she was going to do. Mother and Father asked if she would become a scientist. Others suggested the official police force, though after the Carl Powers debacle nothing could’ve appealed to her less.  
  
Even Mycroft asked, popping up one day outside a lecture, looking older and more sophisticated than ever. He’d asked, in his slightly condescending way, if she wouldn’t consider philosophy. She’d told him to fuck off.  
  
Mycroft now made regular checks on her, because of the drugs. Infuriatingly, however, he had taken to meeting her without warning and in highly public places, trying to avoid a scene.  
  
‘I know you like seeing me,’ he’d said once, after appearing at Sherlocks elbow as she brought herself coffee. ‘And don’t think I don’t know about the smoking. What would Mother say?’  
  
‘Mother would say your bad habits have been rubbing off on me.’  
  
Mycroft had smiled. ‘Perhaps.’ He linked up his arm with hers, making her stomach lurch, and led them both towards a small table. She sat, cautious. Had he, at last, reconsidered?  
  
‘I haven’t reconsidered,’ Mycroft said, reading her expression. ‘I’ve come to say that I’m worried about you.’  
  
‘How touching.’  
  
‘Seriously, Sherlock. You are a very intelligent woman and I do not want to see that wasted.’  
  
‘Shame.’  
  
‘Work for me.’  
  
She examined his face, and realized he was serious. She wanted to throw her coffee over his face, though the idea of actually disfiguring him was repellent. So she glared instead.  
  
‘No. Fuck off.’  
  
‘Consider it, please.’  
  
‘I’ve considered it, I’m telling you to fuck off.’  
  
He sighed, as if offering her a job was an unpleasant task that was exhausting him. Yet there was a sparkle in his eyes, and his foot was tapping the air as if dancing along to a tune.  
  
No, despite his long-suffering air, Mycroft was just as pleased to see her as she was to see him.  
  
‘I’ll make up my own job,’ Sherlock said, standing up with her coffee. ‘And it will be the best thing in the entire world.’

 

~

 

She’d meant it as joke. She hadn’t actually intended to, well, invent her own job. But then the Donald murders had occurred and she had spent an entire week sitting in front of the TV, swearing at every police officer who came on screen for being so blind.  
  
Eventually, bored and angry, Sherlock had dressed herself and left the flat. She knew exactly where the police would be congregated. All she had to do was make them listen and then she’d be able to get some peace, knowing that thanks to her one small particle of human stupidity had been vanquished.

 

~

 

‘You’re very good,’ Greg Lestrade said, two days later over reheated noodles and coffee. ‘If we ever had something as weird as this again, that is… I. Well. I wouldn’t be opposed to bringing you in.’  
  
‘Your entire team would be opposed,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Besides, I don’t want to be a cop.’  
  
‘My team likes solving cases more than they dislike you,’ Greg said. ‘And, no, please never suggest being a copper again, I might have a heart attack. I’m just saying, you’d make an alright private detective, or something.’  
  
‘How about a consulting detective?’ Sherlock asked, looking up at him. ‘If something good turns up, you lot consult me.’  
  
Greg frowned. He was, Sherlock noted, a very attractive man. She considered sleeping with him, despite his failing marriage. Somehow, though, the idea failed to excite her.  
  
‘It’d be highly irregular,’ Greg said. ‘But as long as you didn’t cause any drama I can’t see why not. As long as you kept on the down low the higher ups wouldn’t mind, really, as long as cases were being solved.’  
  
‘Ok,’ Sherlock said, dropping her fork and offering him her hand. ‘We have a deal.’

 

~

 

Mycroft called it ‘playing detective’ and refused to take it seriously for an entire year. She ignored him, content with solving the puzzles, making a bit of money, antagonizing everybody at the Yard and buying decent chemistry equipment with her new income.  
  
It was a good time. Despite her failure to seduce Mycroft, despite the fact that the only person at the Yard who liked her was Greg, Sherlock felt ok. She resorted to the cocaine less and less.  
  
She even started accessing her small but decent trust fund. All she ever brought with the money was clothing, but clothing, as she had discovered many years ago, had a language of its own. In particular she liked lording it over the fools who worked on forensics, them stuck in awful zip up suits and she in an expensive jacket and scarf.  
  
Her drug use dwindled.  
  
In order to further her experiments, she started spending time at Barts as well. Some of the students she recognized from her university years, but not as many as she’d expected.  
  
There was one morgue attendant in particular who came in useful. Her name was Molly and she had the most painfully obvious crush on Sherlock- it sometimes reminded her of being in high school again, when people would rush to the library for her, trying to find the best books on anatomy or chemistry. She didn’t want Molly in that way (though she did spend about a minute considering it) but was careful never to be too rude. Molly was reliable, clever, rather nervous but an undeniable asset.  
  
Sherlock immersed herself in the world of criminals and conspiracy’s, patterns and secrets. The deeper she sank the more she began to recognize a single, unifying theme. It was nothing obvious. Nothing she could bring to Lestrade, nothing that would stand up in court.  
  
Yet there was something, she could feel it. Just beneath the surface. Something (or someone) who was pulling the strings.

 

~

 

It was at this point that Sherlock met John Watson, and when, for better or for worse, everything started to change.  
  
She had no desire to fuck John, nor any desire to have him send her roses or call her beautiful. Yet even so he filled up a hole in her heart that she hadn’t even known about. It seemed that, despite her cold denials, she had been longing for a friend who liked her just as she was.  
  
And John was that friend. With a bullet wound in his shoulder, the patience of a saint, a bad temper when roused and bad taste in women, John was the best friend she had ever known.  
  
Who else delighted in her deductions instead of spitting at her? Who else willing lived alongside her experiments? Nobody, that was who.  
  
Of course, there were some thing she couldn’t tell him. Things about her drug use, for a start. And her love life was strictly off-limits, after a singularly awkward conversation over dinner. She couldn’t imagine how John would react to the truth about Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft, who was absolutely, undeniably, green with jealousy over John Watson.

 

~

 

‘You think he’s the biggest threat to you so far,’ Sherlock told Mycroft over the phone. ‘So you kidnap him and try to scare him off. But it doesn’t work! Disaster! So what does my darling, handsome jealous brother do but fill my flat with cameras? Not subtle, Myc, not at all.’  
  
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Mycroft said. He sounded constipated by his anger and embarrassment. ‘I’m very glad you’ve found a friend.’  
  
‘No, you aren’t,’ Sherlock laughed. ‘Well, don’t worry, even if I do fuck him you’ll have it on video.’  
  
‘Sherlock…’  
  
She sighed, holding the phone close to her mouth so that he’d hear it nice and loud. It was so blissful, having him jealous at last, forced by the arrival of a hypothetically compatible mate to make a move.  
  
‘Well, I did give you many, many chances,’ she pointed out. ‘Not my fault if you don’t know what’s good for you.’  
  
‘Look,’ Mycroft started, but Sherlock was distracted. She had been waiting for the elusive Moriarty to comment on her blog for the past half an hour, and now he had! A meeting at the pool with her very own fan, what fun.  
  
‘I have to go, brother dear,’ Sherlock trilled. ‘Have to catch up with somebody who actually does want my attention.’  
  
She hung up, excited by how swiftly Mycroft was crumbling under pressure. It wouldn’t be long now, surely, before he admitted to the rightness of what she had offered him at seventeen.  
  
In the meantime, though, she was interested in meeting Moriarty in the flesh. She hoped he wouldn’t be interested in fucking her, as she was rather desperately enjoying the status quo as it was: a cat and mouse game of crime and detection, puzzle and solution.  
  
She knew it might get out of hand. She knew that John was furious with her for refusing to regard Moriarty as a violent and deranged individual. But Moriarty was interesting, and anything that was interesting she clung to.  
  
Lestrade and John and Mycroft deprived her of her cocaine these days, working together to block her at every turn each time she was tempted. So they only had themselves to blame, if she was interested in whatever it was that Moriarty had to offer.

 

~

 

Sherlock and John walked back to 221B side by side, both shivering a little with cold and adrenaline. John was still rubbing his hands down his front, as if double checking that the bombs really had been removed. Neither of them spoke much.  
  
Moriarty would be back. Would already, no doubt, be working on a master plan designed specifically to destroy her in every conceivable way. She pictured various deaths for herself: shot, drowned, thrown off a building, poison, fire…  
  
‘I’m going to shower, if that’s ok,’ John said as Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B. ‘I need to get the feel of him off me, to be honest.’  
  
‘Ok.’  
  
John hurried up the steps in front of her, already pulling his jacket off. For a few awful, confusing seconds she hadn’t thought he’d been a hostage at all… she’d thought something much darker…  
  
She took off her coat and scarf. Mycroft would be arriving any moment now, she knew. The CCTV cameras had turned to watch them every step of the way home. How much did Mycroft know about Moriarty? Would he be willing to help her?  
  
The shower started up. Whatever happened, she could not allow John to be placed in that kind of danger again. She had never enjoyed collateral damage. Blowing up the old lady, taking John: these were things that frightened her. They were so far beyond her control.  
  
She heard the door open downstairs. Mycroft. Trying to look unconcerned she walked and stood by the mirror, resting her hand on Billy. His toothy grin suited her mood.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, panting slightly. He’d run up the stairs. How flattering.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ he said again. ‘You frightened me.’  
  
She turned, ready to be sarcastic. The expression on his face silenced her. His lips were thin, his skin pale, his eyes wide. She had never seen him look so terrified, so openly emotional.  
  
‘Mycroft,’ Sherlock said gently. ‘I’m ok.’  
  
Mycroft swooped, catching her in a tight, desperate embrace. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her nose into his shoulder, inhaling his long familiar sent. His hand rubbed soothingly, moving from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. Up, down, up, down. Occasionally his fingers caught in her curls.  
  
‘I really am ok,’ Sherlock whispered.  
  
Mycroft pulled his head back a little. Just enough that the tip of his nose brushed against her hers. His breath smelled like tea, cigarettes and mint. She was acutely aware of his hands on her hips.  
  
‘I’m ok,’ Sherlock whispered again, barely loud enough to be heard. ‘Mycroft.’  
  
For a moment they were entirely still. Then Mycroft kissed her, bending to press his lips against hers with a desperate exhale. She opened her mouth for him, inviting him in, marveling at the taste of him, the texture of his tongue against her own.  
  
He kissed like nobody else she had ever kissed. She could not predict him, could not tire of him. Sherlock put her hands either side of his face, holding him close, feeling his jaw move under her palm. They had wasted so many years, but now-  
  
Mycroft pulled away without warning. His breathing was even more labored than it had been before. His eyes were dark.  
  
‘You’re ok now, yes,’ he said, his voice harder than it had been. ‘But you won’t be _ok_ for long, Sherlock. He’ll return for you. He won’t stop until you die and I refuse to let that happen.’  
  
‘I know that,’ Sherlock said. ‘I know he’ll be back, I’m not foolish.’  
  
‘We need a plan,’ Mycroft said. His fingers bit into her hips. ‘We need to work together.’

 

~

 

Over the next weeks Sherlock spoke to Mycroft almost constantly, whenever she knew John would not be able to overhear. There was nothing romantic about these talks.  
  
 _(‘I can’t deny that I want you, Sherlock, I can’t, but my priority and yours must be to keep you alive. Later, once this threat has passed, you and I can… well. We’ll see. But not yet, sister Sherlock. Not yet.’)  
_  
All the information Mycroft had about Moriarty he gave to her. The details were fascinating. She knew, dimly, that it would make for a truly brilliant book, if only it were possible to publish any of it. From his fist kill in primary school (Carl Powers… how long had she been uncovering his crimes without knowing it?) to the head of a gigantic, almost imperceptible criminal empire…  
  
Despite the desperate, secret nature of their planning, Sherlock was not above teasing Mycroft. She doubted she ever would be, being the younger sibling. Yet now, with the stakes higher than ever and their union looming, she felt a keen thrill whenever she played him.  
  
Which is why she went to Buckingham Palace naked and wrapped in a sheet.  
  
It was a risk, yes, but she felt certain that John would assume her nudity was because of her desire to upset Mycroft and not arouse him. It was the sort of thing she would do, after all.  
  
Sitting naked in her sheet and giggling with John, half from humor and half from jittery excitement, Sherlock wondered what she’d do if the queen actually did walk in. Best not to dwell on it.  
  
Mycroft walked in. His expression was priceless and Sherlock found herself sad that she hadn’t been able to smuggle a video camera inside her sheet, just to record it.  
  
‘Sherlock Holmes, put your clothes on!’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
He didn’t have a good answer. She wondered how difficult he was finding it not to blush. How far could she push it?  
  
Quite far, as it turned out. Mycroft ended up stamping down on the end of her sheet, and it was only her quick reflexes that stopped her from being entirely naked in the Palace. Even so, having her breasts out felt terribly risky.  
  
‘Let me go, Mycroft,’ she said, not turning around.  
  
‘Or what?’  
  
‘Or I’ll just walk away.’  
  
‘I’ll let you.’  
  
She felt arousal burn through her.

 

~

 

The fiasco with Ian Adler had been initially interesting. Sherlock had been intrigued by his boldness, by his mystery. There were not very many gay male professional Doms who blackmailed governments, after all.  
  
She had eventually gotten the details about the lurid photographs out of Mycroft. They were even more shocking than she’d been expecting, never having heard of plushophilia in connection with BDSM before.  
  
But his attraction towards her had been, frankly, unwelcome and unappealing. Soon she would have Mycroft, why should she want anybody else?  
  
Then came the Bond Air disaster. Ian had given Sherlocks deductions to Moriarty, therefore ruining one of Mycrofts most delicate political schemes. Guilt, hot and unpleasant, had risen in her chest. But the worst was yet to come.  
  
Ian was no true genius, but he did have an almost unnatural skill at reading people, at uncovering unsettling truths about them. In his line of work, Sherlock supposed, uncovering a clients sexual secrets would be essential. She should never have allowed Ian, Mycroft and herself to be in the same room at once.  
  
Ian had thought he was winning. Ian had boasted about the explosives hidden in his phone, and his intimate connection with Moriarty. He had laughed at the two of them, delighted. Then, to Sherlocks horror, his expression became calculating.  
  
‘I think Jim got it wrong,’ Ian said slowly, eyes moving between them. ‘I don’t think his nicknames work at all in this case. Won’t he be delighted when he finds out that cold, icy Mycrofts heart has been melted by his own little sister…’  
  
Ian was dead four hours later.

 

~

 

In the end the plan Moriarty developed was close to what Mycroft had predicted. Using the media, using her friends, using the fabric of her life to smother her. Not literally smother her, though- Moriarty wanted her final moments to be airborne and public, after all.  
  
Lazarus was the name Mycroft gave to their plan of attack. Sherlock thought it was a pretentious, obvious name and said so, but Mycroft refused to change it.  
  
Sherlock knew her faked suicide was going to hurt a number of people. John and Lestrade, primarily. John, who cared about her very deeply, who considered her the reason he had been able to survive London after Afghanistan. And Lestrade, who had known her for years now, who had seen her at her worst and still given her cases to solve.  
  
Mrs Hudson, too… she thought of Sherlock like a daughter.  
  
If she focused on those details for too long Sherlocks resolve would falter. She had to concentrate on the unsentimental facts, on the realities of her situation. Moriarty was coming. She had to be ready. And while she was free to take down his network, she would also be free, at last, to spend as much time with Mycroft as she wanted.  
  
~

 

‘I know you’re not interested,’ Molly said, blushing as she examined the results of the mud Sherlock had brought in for analysis. ‘That’s ok, and I understand. Obviously I do. But. Just so you know, in case you don’t know, but you probably do, um. If you ever needed help, I’d be ready to- _happy_ to help you.’  
  
Sherlock looked up at Molly, touched. She had underestimated the goodness of Mollys soul.  
  
‘Thank you, Molly,’ she said. ‘That means a lot, right now. Things are only going to get worse.’  
  
‘They are?’  
  
‘I’m afraid so.’  
  
‘Can I help?’  
  
Sherlock considered her: would she be able to keep a secret this big? Was her affection for Sherlock really strong enough to hold her tongue for quite possibly years?  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. ‘Yes, you can help.’

 

~

 

A small, morbid part of Sherlock was extremely excited on the rooftop at Barts. She was thinking, selfishly, of her brother, waiting for her not too far away.  
  
It was the only thing that stopped her from reaching out to comfort John.  


~

 

‘He shot himself,’ Sherlock said to Mycroft as she slid into the car. ‘I wasn’t really expecting- well. I’ll have to try and delete it. Moriarty. I don’t know, Mycroft. I don’t feel guilty. But I feel…’  
  
‘It would be understandable to pity him,’ Mycroft said, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘He was a genius, yes, but as we both know genius is no guarantee of happiness.’  
  
‘And John?’ Sherlock asked, remembering his broken grief in his voice. ‘He’ll find happiness, do you think, while I’m gone?’  
  
‘I think so,’ Mycroft said. ‘Without you dragging him around London at all hours I imagine he might actually manage to hold down a stable relationship.’  
  
‘I hope so,’ Sherlock said. She leaned over and kissed Mycroft on the cheek. ‘It wouldn’t be fair if he ended up being celibate for two years out of grief, considering what I’ll be up to.’  
  
~

 

They went to France, where Moriarty had a large number of associates. With his unexpected suicide they’d been thrown into a panic. It would take them very long to catch them, not with their combined intellect.

So Mycroft took her to dinner.  
  
She wore a dress so expensive she felt actually humbled by it. That didn’t matter though, compared to the expression of shock and adoration that spread across Mycrofts face at the sight of her walking down the stairs towards him.  
  
Sherlock felt her heart swell inside her chest. Nobody knew who they were, here- they were safe, for the first time, to publically adore each other.  
  
Mycroft took her hand and kissed it, twice, before leading her towards the table he’d reserved for them. Many men, and few women, gave Sherlock admiring looks.  
  
‘This is lovely,’ Sherlock said. ‘Will you have any money left, or should I extend my thanks to the tax payers back home?’  
  
‘Don’t be nasty, Sherlock.’  
  
‘Fine, fine.’  
  
It was hard to maintain even her usual amount of sarcasm when she was so happy. His arm linked up with hers. She caught a glimpse of them in a mirror set in the wall. They made a lovely couple.  
  
‘I’ve already ordered,’ Mycroft said, as they sat. ‘Something light for you. I know you don’t like eating on a case.’  
  
‘This isn’t a case. Not really.’  
  
‘And yet it is, in a way, the biggest case you will ever take on. International, years long, prolonged consequences for yourself and those around you.’  
  
‘Prolonged consequences…’ Sherlock examined the wine menu and looked at Mycroft from under her eyelashes. ‘Yes, I dare say the consequences will be long lasting. And, I hope, rather enjoyable.’  
  
‘You’re a terrible flirt.’  
  
‘You enjoy it.’  
  
‘Well of course I do,’ Mycroft said, and his shoe bumped up against hers under the table. ‘Where would we be if I didn’t?’  
  
‘I shudder to think. I’m glad you came around. I wasn’t sure you would, really. Not always.’  
  
Mycrofts smile faded. He reached across the table and took her hands in his. She could see years of regret in his eyes, which were much older, sadder eyes than they had been years ago, when she had been only seventeen.  
  
‘I made many mistakes, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, his voice low. ‘I can hardly list them all, or we’d be here all night. There isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t regret the pain and upset I caused you.’  
  
‘It’s ok,’ Sherlock said, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. ‘I love you, you know that?’  
  
‘I know. I love you too.’

 

~

 

When she was in Russia, exhausted, cold and undercover, a single red rose made its way into her bedroom.

 

~

 

In Kyoto her hotel gave her the best room (and the best food) for free. Initially suspicious (she was alone, and her Japanese was not good) Sherlock had investigated their recent transactions.  
  
It took her mere seconds to recognize the code she and Mycroft had agreed upon for secret communications: _With love, MH._

 

~

 

They worked together in in Germany for a week, Sherlock busy with the legwork while Mycroft pulled the strings from above. They stole kisses from each other constantly, slept in the same bed with their arms and legs twisted together.  
  
There was, however, no time for sex. She was constantly exhausted and often nursing injuries, and Mycroft was in a perpetual state of stress. Her fingers were burnt, or her ankle was sprained- neither of them wanted to fuck for the first time and later remember blisters, swollen joints or time limits.  
  
It was enough for her to sleep by him. She ran her cheek over the soft hair on his chest, sighed as his hands ran up her stomach, exploring the softness of her skin. She would sleep knowing his face was close by.

 

~

 

Mycroft had given her a phone which was near impossible to trace. She kept an eye on Johns blog, and on Molly. They were surviving. She missed John, often opening her mouth to point out something only to remember he was far away and oblivious.  
  
She kept a close eye on Lestrade, too. Two unsolved cases thus far. Her fingers itched with frustration to help, to do something. But she didn’t. She couldn't risk giving herself away.

 

~

 

In Dublin she fell ill with a vile cold. For eight days she was stuck in a hotel that smelt, for reasons unknown, of cheese, unable to work and unable to breathe properly. Tissues surrounded her bed like a moat. 

Mycroft arrived on the forth day with Anthea, who took over the case Sherlock had been working on. Mycroft stayed with her.  
  
‘What will she think?’ Sherlock mumbled as Anthea left. ‘Will she suspect?’  
  
‘Of course not,’ Mycroft said, resting his hand over her sweaty face. ‘I’m merely a concerned brother taking care of his ill sister while she recovers from an illness caught during highly classified government work.’  
  
‘Too many words,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’d ask you to kiss me but I don’t want you getting what I’ve got.’  
  
He kissed her anyway. His lips brushed over her lips, over her nose, and came to rest on her forehead.

 

~

 

It happened at Mycrofts second house on the outskirts of Paris.  
  
They were only stayed two days before moving on to Rio. The summer sun was cooling as autumn approached and Sherlock had spent nine full hours just sleeping, glad to be somewhere safe, with a soft mattress.  
  
Mycroft had spent most of that time beside her on the bed, dressed only in his underpants. Sometimes he merely watched her, smiling. Most of the time he was on his phone, organizing the press and their flights. 

She woke in stages. Her hair was a mad, curly mess and she was wearing the little silk slip Mycroft had provided. Her toes were cold but most of her body was toasty warm, wrapped around Mycroft as she was.  
  
‘Awake, are you?’ Mycroft said, running his long fingers down her arm. ‘It’s about time. I was hoping we’d have some quality time together before we got on another plane.’  
  
‘We could have quality time _on_ the plane,’ Sherlock suggested idly. 

Her eyes roamed over Mycrofts body, taking in each small freckle, the birthmark near his hip. His cock was hardening in his pants already. Sherlock felt her nipples begin to harden. She had been waiting years, after all.  
  
‘I’d much prefer our quality time to happen on a bed,’ Mycroft said. He kissed her, his nose pressing into her cheek from the awkwardness of the angle.  
  
‘I think it’s about time you and I got to know each other properly,’ Sherlock said. ‘We’ve had years of foreplay, you and I.’  
  
‘Foreplay is _at least_ half the fun,’ Mycroft said into her mouth. He rolled on top of her. She was unable to contain a moan when she felt his hardening cock brush against her.  
  
Sherlock wrapped her arms around Mycrofts neck, holding him close. The feeling of his soft, warm chest pressing over her made her hips press upwards. They pulled away the sheet between them. Her heart beat was increasing by the second.  
  
‘Take those damn pants off,’ Sherlock said. ‘I want to taste you.’  
  
Mycrofts eyelashes fluttered. He yanked down his pants in extreme haste, almost kicking her in the chin with a knee. She giggled, her excitement bubbling over. His cock was long and already leaking.  
  
She flipped him, delighted, knocking the air out of his chest. His cock bobbed, almost slapping against his stomach. Sherlock leaned down, arse up, and slipped her lips over the tip, gazing up at him from under her lashes.  
  
‘Sherlock, you will be the end of me,’ Mycroft said, putting a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.  
  
‘Maybe,’ Sherlock said, letting her lips brush against his cock as she spoke. ‘But what a way to go.’  
  
She took him deep into her throat, relishing the thickness of him in her mouth, tugging at her lips. His salty taste was surprisingly pleasant. Her cunt clenched, desperate to be touched, but she denied herself.  
  
His eyes were wide as he watched. She felt a heady rush of power as she hollowed her cheeks, making him moan and shake beneath her. She sank inch by inch, breathing hard through her nose, careful of her gag reflex.  
  
‘Sherlock, Christ, you don’t have to- not all of it-’  
  
She just winked, relaxing her throat. So close now, so close… His pubic hair tickled the end of her nose. She rubbed her tongue against his flesh as best she could. It was heavy inside her mouth.  
  
‘I don’t want to come like this but you are making it very, very difficult,’ Mycroft chocked out.  
  
Sherlock let his cock slip out of her mouth. His pre-come was smeared over her bottom lip, so she licked it away. Her happiness seemed to alter the very atmosphere: even the air seemed bright, golden.  
  
‘I believe the phrase is _turnabout is fair play_ ,’ Mycroft said. He kissed her, and Sherlock shivered, knowing he would taste himself. Meanwhile his hand slid down her stomach and came to rest against her cunt.  
  
She angled her hips forwards, pressing his fingers lower. Mycrofts fingertips were soft and un-calloused from much desk work.  
  
‘Don’t you _dare_ tease me now,’ Sherlock said, pressing her lips against his ear.  
  
He was kind. Two of his fingers moved forwards, sliding down the wet seam of her cunt. They groaned together, Mycroft at her slick heat and Sherlock at the feel of his fingers moving over her, parting her, seeking her hole.  
  
‘Oh god,’ she said, her head dropping onto his bare shoulder. ‘Oh god, please, both your fingers.’  
  
But he exceeded her expectations, slipping not two but three fingers inside her. She cried out, eyes slamming shut. She could feel his fingers pressed together, could feel her muscles clenching around him.  
  
Mycroft caught her lips in a kiss, his tongue teasing her own as his fingers pumped and twisted inside of her. His skin was hot against hers, slightly sweaty but not unpleasantly so.  
  
His wrist was twisted in a way that looked uncomfortable but Sherlock couldn’t worry about his comfort because his thumb was pointing upwards, upwards against her clit. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and Mycroft, encouraged, rubbed firmly against the nub of her clit.  
  
She could feel her orgasm building inside her stomach, in her spine, in the arch of her feet. 

Mycroft spoke, his voice low and urgent, his lips barely moving away from her own.

‘Do you want to come like this?’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Sherlock moaned, ‘then you can fuck me.’  
  
‘Christ, yes, good,’ Mycroft said.  
  
His thumb pressed harder against his clit. Sherlock yelled something inarticulate, bouncing her hips up and down, her tits brushing against his chest, not caring if his wrist ached for the next two weeks. She could hear herself panting, could feel her skin heating, prickling, her whole body narrowing down to the heat of her core.  
  
‘Come for me, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said softly, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of her ear.  
  
She bit down on the side of his neck, narrowly missing his face, and came. It felt like being hit by lightening, only deeper, hotter, her whole mind wiped blank in a burning moment of pure, unfiltered pleasure.  
  
Mycroft hissed as she clenched and pulsed around his fingers, her hips shaking. Sherlock felt her toes curl. She had to grip her brothers shoulders to stop herself from falling sideways.  
  
Mycroft lowered her gently onto the bed. Every muscle in her body felt weak, but enjoyably so, as if she had just gotten the worlds best back rub. She smiled, feeling lazy and warm, as Mycroft kissed her nipples, her stomach. His cock looked painfully hard.  
  
‘Come on,’ Sherlock breathed, nodding towards his cock. ‘I said you could. I’m all relaxed.’  
  
She parted her legs, watching Mycroft bite down on his bottom lip as he aligned their bodies. He sank into her in one smooth motion. She gasped, her mouth opening into a wide _oh_ of surprise. Above her Mycroft was sucking in air through his nose.  
  
His hips started to move. She moaned, encouraging him, feeling him deep within her, opening her. He was looking between her face and where they were joined, lust and quiet awe in his eyes.  
  
His hands slid up and down her stomach, his fingers occasionally rubbing gently over her nipples. She arched her back as best she could and clenched, eyes open. She had waited so long to see this, to see Mycroft undone by being inside her.  
  
He shook, eyes closing, his mouth opening as he cried out her name over and over again.  
  
‘Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…’

 

~

 

Two hours later they sat in on the lounge eating toast. Sherlock had her toes in Mycrofts lap. She still felt as if she could float off at any moment. Judging from the look on Mycrofts face he felt the same way.  
  
‘Was I worth the wait?’  
  
‘Of course you were,’ Sherlock said. ‘That’s why I waited.’

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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